


All that's best of dark and bright

by ArdeaJestin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Dark Past, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Poetry, Rey Needs A Hug, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22591594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArdeaJestin/pseuds/ArdeaJestin
Summary: Rey had big plans for Valentine's Day: laundry, errands, and an evening of fantasizing over her impossibly sexy building manager, Ben Solo. That was before she found an anonymous love poem in her mailbox.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 30
Kudos: 106
Collections: For one is both and both are one in love: The Reylo Fanfiction Anthology's Valentine's Day Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [persopilliankore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persopilliankore/gifts).



It’s Valentine’s Day, and there’s a love poem in her mailbox.

Rey stands on the last step of the outdoor stairs leading up to the first floor. She was mindlessly opening her mail – bills, promotions, the monthly property newsletter – when she noticed a small unmarked envelope. Inside it was a simple sheet of paper with a few lines written in longhand. Fine black pen, no signature.

A poem. A love poem. Lord Byron, if she recalls correctly. Lord Byron in her mailbox, and here she is, in leggings, flip-flops and her favorite hoodie, looking numbly at the gorgeous handwriting and gorgeous words and feeling like this has to be a mistake.

Rey has never been the kind of girl men write poems to. In fact, she’s not even the kind of girl that can get a semi-decent guy to text her, mostly because she doesn’t want to _get_ anyone to do anything. That requires art, strategy, a craftiness that’s completely alien to her. _Raised by wolves_ , they say, because it sounds better than _raised by no one_. Wolves could care, after all.

And now someone cares. Or at least, someone cares enough to write, fold, seal, and deliver this small token of loveliness to her.

She realizes she’s been frozen in place for a full minute and quickly makes her way to her door. As soon as she enters her tiny two bedroom apartment, she dumps the rest of the mail on the table, sits on the couch and reads the poem again. And again. And again. Each time she gives in to the thrill that these words are addressed to her before backtracking and putting the paper down.

A mistake. This was meant for someone else. Her name isn’t on the envelope after all.

But what if it really is for her? She picks it back up, scans it for clues, gets caught up in the beauty of it.

“This is crazy,” she tells herself out loud, as if that will definitely break the spell and bring her back to reason.

She carefully puts the poem back in its envelope, leaves it on the couch and heads towards the kitchenette to make coffee. No time to dwell, she’s got things to do on her day off – errands, laundry, catching up on sleep. But in the corner of her eye, the envelope is there, taunting her with its blank white crispness on the worn olive-green velour. This is just like any other day, except it isn’t, and now she can’t pretend.

Whoever wrote that poem deserve both a passionate kiss and a slap in the face.

*

This was a mistake. A huge mistake. How could he be so stupid?

Whenever Ben needs to clear his head, he goes down to the boiler room to do some work on the pipes. There’s something about getting his toolbox out and going about adjusting gauges and testing screws with the precision of an engineer on a jet engine that clears his head and makes him feel calm. This is why he became a building manager in the first place: his life is a mess, but he can fix other things, and that makes it more bearable. And even though the building is nothing but a dozen nondescript condos shoved in between a 7-Eleven and a Whole Foods, he takes pride in caring for it as best he can.

Today, though, his distraction tactic isn’t working. He screwed up – _again_. He promised himself he wouldn’t. What point was there to disappearing and starting over fresh if he’s not going to follow the strict discipline he put in place? Work hard, read diligently, eat three times a day, and above all, keep others at a distance, because with others come the tragic spiral of hope, doubt, disappointment and anxiety.

Ben sets down his wrench, stands up and stretches his back. There’s not much left to do here; he should go back up, lock himself in his apartment and lose himself in budget sheets. But what if he meets _her_ along the way?

Fuck it. This is what happens when he lets his guard down.

He closes his toolbox and quickly dashes back to his apartment. Thankfully, the courtyard of the building is deserted and he doesn’t run into anyone. Once inside, he plops down on the couch and gives himself a minute or two to indulge in the perfect storm of misery he created for himself.

The first time Ben laid eyes on Rey, he knew he would have to be cautious. He prides himself in handpicking tenants who are serious and honest, and not just some young jerk-offs coming to the big city with stars in their eyes, full of shit and their parents’ money. Rey fit the bill perfectly: she worked as a sound engineer in a tiny theater and seemed happy for it, and in spite of her fresh-faced youth, her clipped British accent made her seemed uncommonly poised.

“No wild parties, no smoking anywhere on the premises, and I don’t accept any excuses when it comes to not paying the rent on time,” he’d told her, like he told every new tenant. “I may come off as a heartless bastard but that’s just the way it is. If you don’t like it, you’re free to leave.”

“Not a heartless bastard,” she’d replied. “Just a wee bit of a prick.”

“Excuse me?”

Her laugh had sent a tremor in his stomach. “Sorry, I was just joking. I think this place is fantastic, honestly.”

And so she stayed. Week after week, he thought he might get used to bumping into her without feeling a little jolt in his heart. The notion of him with a crush on one of his tenants was beyond ridiculous, especially since there wasn’t anything special about her. She went out to get coffee – _humming to herself, walking so gracefully she seemed to dance_ , she wore flats and her hair was always up in a bun – _revealing the beautiful curve of her neck_ , she didn’t bother with makeup – _her smile was enough to light up her whole face_.

Ben closes his eyes and a vision of Rey floats up easily, as if his brain is so used to conjuring up her image by now that it doesn’t even need to be asked. She is a dream, and this is a nightmare.

He stands up to go take a shower, half-hoping he’ll drown in it. Why the _hell_ did he write down that poem in the first place?


	2. Chapter 2

When she returns from Whole Foods with a bag full of groceries, there are two things Rey can’t help doing.

First of all, she looks over the mailboxes, as if this could give her a hint as to the identity of her anonymous admirer which might not be an admirer at all. Maybe he just slipped the envelope in the wrong slot. Her mailbox, number 13, is the last one on the row, but number 12 is Rose Tico.

Rose mostly keeps to herself, but Rey’s seen her around and they’ve chit-chatted enough for Rey to know that Rose is a writer for a documentary movie studio and an avid yoga practitioner. Would it be crazy to knock on her door and ask if she has a boyfriend who’s a fan of Lord Byron? Probably, but at least she’d cross out the only tangible lead off a list of one and that would be that.

The second thing she does is glance through the blinds of Ben Solo’s ground floor apartment.

Rey finds it both easy and difficult to describe her building manager. He’s tall, dark, unsmiling and efficient. He fixes things, hates small talk and never reveals anything about a life he might possibly have outside of replacing light bulbs in the stairwell or taking deliveries. And yet there’s something about him that hints at hidden depths, just below the surface, as if his cold exterior could dissolve in a second to reveal fire underneath. Ben is plain and uncommon, off-putting and compelling. And every single time Rey leaves her apartment, she hopes she’ll run into him, and when she doesn’t, se tries to think of an excuse to knock at the door, because whatever strange vibe he’s giving off, she was hooked on it the first time they spoke.

It looks like he isn’t home right now, and anyway they got the monthly newsletter this morning, so she can’t really think of anything to ask him. Maybe she should resort to plugging her own kitchen sink or something. She imagines a scenario in which she opens the door in a negligee and Ben is wearing that white tank top she once saw him watering the plants in, holding a monkey wrench over his shoulder, his biceps bulging. She should be mortified to even consider it, nonetheless she files the fantasy away for later use; it is Valentine’s Day, after all.

After returning to her apartment and putting her groceries away, she heads down to Rose’s apartment and knocks tentatively on the door.

“Just a minute!” Rose calls from inside, then opens a few moments later in full yoga gear. “Rey! How are you? Am I making too much noise with my tantric chanting?”

“No, not at all,” Rey replies, surprised. “Tantric chanting, wow.”

“Yeah, I just started. My sister Paige was a big fan, so I’m giving it a try.”

_Was_. Rey knows better than to ask why not _is_. It could be nothing, and it could be something, especially in a city where people usually pretend that the past tense doesn’t exist.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says. “I’ll only be a minute. This is going to sound very strange, but… is there anyone you can think of that would be inclined to put a love poem in your mailbox?”

Rose’s eyes widen. “A love poem?”

“Yeah, see, I found this unmarked envelope in my mailbox this morning and it contained this poem by Lord Byron. And I thought maybe there had been a mix-up and it was meant for you.”

“Cheesy, but no cynicism allowed on February 14th,” Rose grins, giddy with excitement. “Can I see it?”

Rey hesitates a moment. The most logical step would be to invite Rose up for coffee – or green tea, more like – but she’s never had anyone in her apartment before. Rose will see how it’s sparsely furnished and decorated. Rose will guess, from the lack of pictures and mementos, that the past tense doesn’t exist for her. Rey made it not exist, and she’s better off for it.

On the other hand, when she came here, she decided that fear was no longer going to hold her back from building the life that was, for a long time, an inaccessible dream glimmering in the distance. Not fame or wealth or beauty. Just people, to take pictures with and give her silly mementos.

“Sure thing,” she replies. “Come on up.”

Fifteen minutes later, they’re both sitting on the couch with hot drinks (two coffees, Rose isn’t that hung up on tea in when it’s before noon) and Rose is carefully observing the letter.

“There’s no reason to think this was meant for me,” she says. “I’m not the type of woman who elicits unbridled passion from artistic types. I don’t even know any artistic types, just a couple of weirdos.”

“See, it’s the same with me,” Rey replies. “This is the first time this has ever happened to me.”

“You work in a theater, right? Have you noticed one of your coworkers being flirty? Or been on a really great Tinder date or something?”

“No way. I’m kind of allergic to flirting. And dating. And men in general, I suppose.”

Rose narrows her eyes. “Not even our building manager?”

Rey feels a blush rise to her cheeks. “What? You mean Ben?”

“I’ve seen you checking him out while he waters the plants,” Rose admits with an amused smile. “He’s not my type and he’s crabby as hell, but I get it. He sort of looks like he doesn’t belong to this time and place, you know?”

That’s it. That’s exactly it. Rey never managed to express it with words but Rose just nailed why she’s been entranced with Ben since they met. He might as well have strolled off the pages of one of the novels she loves, a scarred, disdainful hero hiding a soul. A soul that would have appreciation for the likes of Lord Byron.

“He does,” she says. “And I do – check him out, I mean. But I’m sure he hasn’t noticed me at all. We barely talk.”

“He barely talks to anyone. Did you ever manage to get a smile out of him?”

“Almost, once. When I told him the new light fixtures he’d put into place over the front gate were better than the old ones.”

“Okay, I’ve lived here for a year and a half and I haven’t so much as seen his lips quiver slightly in an upwards direction. That’s definitely a good sign.”

Rose’s cheerful optimism is infectious, but Rey won’t let herself hope so easily. “For all we know, he already has a girlfriend.”

“I’ve seen Ben fixing waterproof sealing on a window at eleven o’ clock at night. Trust me, that man is not getting laid.”

Rey sighs. “Even if you’re right, there’s just no way for me to know if he’s the one who wrote this. I can’t just go up to him and ask him point blank.”

“Relax. I think I have an idea.” Rose looks at her phone briefly and rolls her eyes. “Crap, I have a meeting I have to get to, but I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Right. Well… I should probably give you my number?”

They exchange numbers while finishing their coffees. Rey finds that she’s strangely pleased. Even if she never finds out who wrote that poem, she’ll at least have made a friend.

*

“Damn it, Solo, what is up with you?”

Ben’s office hours – though he doesn’t work in an office, and he doesn’t like to keep hours – are purely theoretical. He hates getting up late, and he hates doing nothing, so whenever he’s not eating or reading, which he often does at the same time, he’s working. The only exception being between the hours of noon at two p.m, when he goes to the boxing club.

It’s a low-key establishment where cheerfulness, small talk and athleisure are banned; in short, as close to heaven as you can find in this fucking town. Ben generally favors the punching bag, but right now he feels like punishing himself, and goes to spar with the club champion, Finn.

Finn doesn’t like him, and he makes no secret of it. Ben is standoffish, arrogant and curses a lot; Finn is humble, with a strong ethic and good manners. When they fight, though, they forget all about their differences, because there’s nothing that brings two people closer than wanting to sock each other in the gut for sport.

Today Finn isn’t the person Ben wants to punch the most, and his anger peters out whenever he tries to make a move. Meanwhile, Finn is growing increasingly irritated because he hates having to chase after his sparring partner to land one.

“This isn’t tag, man,” he spits out. “Get in the game or get off the ring.”

“You’re right,” Ben says, tearing off his gloves. “Forget about it.”

He leaves the ring and goes to get a drink of water. Finn is right behind him, scowling through the sweat on his forehead.

“You better bring it next time. That was weak.”

“Kick me out of the club for all I care,” Ben mutters. “You’ve got a dozen other guys you can beat to a pulp.”

Finn shrugs his shoulders. “You know why I like sparring with you?"

"More entertaining than a punching bag?"

"It's because you get it.”

Ben sits on one of the benches and frowns. What the fuck is he talking about?

“A lot of the people who come here box because they want to get fit, or they used to box in college, or they find it helps them relieve pressure. We even have some people coming in now because some magazine proclaimed that boxing was the new hip workout to try.” Finn shakes his head. “But not you. You just want some peace and quiet.”

No one would think a boxing club would be a place to get some peace and quiet. Not unless they’re been through the same sort of thing Ben’s been through. When no one talks, it’s quiet. When you inhabit your body without a thought in your head, you’re at peace. A punching bag is uncomplicated. A sparring partner won’t try to convince you with slippery words and ambiguous gestures of what you’re supposed to want.

Peace and quiet.

“Don’t ruin it by being angry at yourself,” Finn adds. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you right now, it’s probably not that big a deal. We already survived, didn’t we?”

“I guess so,” Ben replies. “Thanks.”

“Save it. I wasn’t saying that so you’d go soft on me. It’s far better if we keep hating each other’s guts.”

As Finn walks away, Ben finds his self-loathing has abated a bit. Finn’s right. He’s getting worked up – not over nothing, because Rey isn’t nothing, and in fact the entire problem is that she’s a bit too much _something_ for him. But the worse that could happen isn’t that bad, and the best that could happen is better than anything he’s known.


	3. Chapter 3

Ben is halfway down the stairs to the laundry room, a load of dirty clothes in his arms, when he realizes that Rey is there.

It was obviously not a great decision to break his habit of doing his laundry at night. Loath as he is to admit it, his conversation with Finn lifted his spirits, and when he returned early from the club, he thought he'd put the time to good use. 

He’s got two options now: he could turn back, but she might hear him, and notice, and think he’s avoiding her, and wonder why, and conclude that he’s a creep. Or he could keep walking down the stairs, and greet her, and possibly make a fool of himself if she decides to talk to him – and Rey is talkative indeed, in a way that drives him crazy in other people but drives him crazy in a different way when it’s her.

Finn’s voice echoes in his head. _We already survived, didn’t we?_ If any of this works out, Ben should probably buy him a beer or something.

He reaches the last step and Rey turns her head towards him. Her pretty pink lips stretch into a smile and he thinks he sees a slight tinge on her cheeks, but that’s probably wishful thinking on his part. He nods at her, observing from the corner of his eye if he can see anything out of the ordinary in her expression, anything at all that would suggest she guessed who had delivered an unwanted surprise in her mailbox, but Rey is the same as always, so lovely that it makes him ache with want.

“You know, they make baskets for that,” she says playfully.

He shrugs and tilts his mouth into a half a smile before dumping his clothes in one of the open washers. “I know. I just never manage to get around to buying one.”

Rey pauses in the middle of separating whites and colors – he pointedly avoids looking too closely in case there’s lingerie in there, because that would completely do him in – and tilts her head. “That’s odd. You’re so organized. I imagine you keeping a checklist at all times in your mind.”

He likes imagining her imagining him, but cautiously avoids reading too much into it. Probably just a turn of phrase.

“I mean, I don’t know anyone else whose building manager prints out a newsletter to keep the tenants informed of all the reparations and improvements that have been done in the past month.”

The fucking newsletter. This is chance to explain everything to her. That he’s been working up the courage for months to make a move on her while constantly berating himself into backing down because there’s no way this won’t end in catastrophe. That he woke up at three in the morning two days ago with the sudden inspiration to make a grand gesture on Valentine’s day, got up, scribbled down three stanzas on a blank sheet of paper. Byron is by no means his favorite – too verbose, too melodramatic – but somehow that particular poem expressed perfectly what he saw in Rey. The next morning, he had sobered up and could clearly see how calamitous that plan was, but then he’d placed a stack of newsletters on top of the envelope and swept it up with along with the rest when he’d gotten around to distributing them.

She’s the last mailbox on the row. The envelope landed there with the last newsletter. The very definition of a Freudian slip, or just terrible luck, although he’s glad it didn’t land in Rose Tico’s mailbox because she would have marched directly to his door and lectured him about his responsibility to keep fruitcakes off the property.

His heart lurches slightly. Could it be that Rey actually liked the poem?

“I, um… I was wondering...”

His voice cracks. The question is right there, about to roll off his tongue, but he can’t. She’s looking at him with those gorgeous hazel eyes of hers, perplexed by his silence, and he can’t.

“Any plans for tonight?”

It’s lame, but it’s still a tiny step in the right direction. Rey blushes noticeably this time, and starts separating her clothes again.

“Not really. I hate feeling obligated to do something special just because of a date on the calendar, know what I mean?”

Having spent Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year alone since he moved here four years ago, Ben knows exactly. “People think it’s pathetic and sad, but there’s a certain comfort in staying home when everyone’s out desperately trying to have the time of their lives,” he replies. “Liberating, almost.”

“I never thought of it that way, but you’re right.” She puts her clothes in two different washers, then digs into the pocket of her hoodie for change. For some reason, this flusters her, or might be the words that she blurts out next. “Still, I wouldn’t mind staying in with someone instead of by myself for once.”

She gives him a little glance over her shoulder before turning on the washers, and Ben feels like the air has been slammed out of his lungs. _Say something. Say something._

_Just shut your mouth. Whatever it is you have to say, no one wants to hear it._

He shakes his head. _Peace and quiet._ “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

They stare at each for a few moments, but it might as well be an eternity since none of them dares to cross the only line that’s left. Now it’s Rey’s turn to be skittish.

“Well… have a great evening then.”

And she bolts out of the room, leaving her basket behind.

*

Rey spends the rest of the afternoon cleaning her apartment. Not just her usual lazy, half-arsed weekly cleaning either, but a proper scrubbing down of every surface, changing sheets, rubbing windows spotless. She’s this close to going out to rent a carpet cleaner.

A strange kind of energy overtook her after talking with Ben. She’s jittery in a good way, wound up like the spring of clock, fired up by her attempt to flirt with him, even though it didn't lead anywhere. This kind of restlessness might well be resolved with a thorough bout of self-love, and boy, does she have fodder for it. She can’t believe she never thought to include the laundry room in her rotation of fantasies involving her building manager.

That would be too easy, though. She wants to hang on to this feeling for as long as she can, and rides it out by polishing the kitchen sink until it practically sparkles.

When she’s done, she notices a notification on her phone. A text from Rose.

_call me sherlock :) dug this out from the bottom my purse. asked ben if he knew a good mechanic to work on my car and he scribbled down the address for me. it matches, right?_

Attached is a photo file showing a post-it note. The writing is the same as the poem.

Rey carefully sets down the phone on the counter, heart hammering in her chest. She wants to believe it so badly that it physically hurts, and yet if it’s true, it’s terrifying. She picks the phone back up, looks at the picture again, realizes she hasn’t answered Rose.

_It does… Thanks :)_

It’s a woefully inadequate response, but it’s the only she can come up with right now, given the magnitude of what she’s feeling.She promises to make up for it later. She has to act now, or she’ll run out of nerve.

When she walks outside, the sky is a soothing shade of pink, glossed over by the setting sun; it gives her a little courage, as if nothing bad could possibly happen under a sky like that. Yet when she knocks on Ben’s door, the long stretch of silence that follows almost breaks her resolve. But turning back now would simply be retreating into her hiding place again, into the safe but stifling haven of routine and anonymity. She has to push forward. If not now, then when?

Ben’s apartment seems quiet and dark, but she swears she can almost feel him on the other side, hear the exact same thoughts going through his head. She recognized it when they talked today, when she tried for an opening and saw him freeze before managing to answer: the same fear, the same need to protect oneself from life’s chaos, and, in the end, the same inability not to care.

Ben opens. He doesn’t seem surprised to see her standing there. In fact, he looks almost relieved.

“Did you write this?” she asks him softly, handing him the envelope with the poem inside.

He nods. His expression is inscrutable. He won’t deny the truth, but he won’t sugarcoat it either. It’s a risk she has to take.

“Did you mean to put it in my mailbox?”

“No.”

The word rings mercilessly in her head and a hot pang of embarrassment makes her face burn. She fights the urge to run away, dash up the stairs and lock herself in her apartment to keep the utter shame of this moment at bay.

“I was going to give it to you, then I chickened out. But I guess my subconscious has more balls, because I ended up putting it by accident in your mailbox with the monthly newsletter.”

The shame, the doubt, the fear, the thrill all dissolve now into one thing, and one thing only: desire. Deep, aching, sweeping desire unlike anything she’s ever experienced.

“Could you… could you read it to me?” she asks, her voice trembling.

Ben’s dark eyes lock with hers and she feels her legs buckle under the intensity of his gaze. Now he knows what she wants, and the bare lust he must read on her face is mirrored on his.

“Come inside, then.”

He steps back to let her in, closes the door and stands in front of her. The only light is coming from his bedroom, but her senses are sharpened by the yearning that tugs at every single nerve in her body.

“ _She walks in beauty, like the night, o_ _f cloudless climes and starry skies,_ _and all that's best of dark and bright_...”

Rey doesn’t let him finish before pressing her lips against his. She doesn’t care about the poem anymore. She doesn’t care about anything but here and now and _him_.

He grunts against her mouth and wraps his arms tightly around her small frame. His body is so taut and dense and looming that she feels like she might get smothered, yet Ben’s touch is deliberate and soft, almost delicate. He takes his time caressing her back, curling the edge of her top in his fingers so his knuckles brush against her skin. Rey presses against him and they stumble on his couch.

"Is this okay?" he rasps.

"Yes, it's... _yes_." 

Before she can fully comprehend what’s happening, she’s removed her top and tugged his shirt off, and the sight of Ben wearing nothing but his jeans makes every single fantasy she’s had about him pale in comparison. Their kisses grow more heated and she knows where this is going, though in a practical sense it’s unknown territory for her. Outside the realm of dreams, she long believed it was populated with monsters. Ben isn’t one of those, and still she can’t rid herself of her anxiety. She pulls back, shakes her head a little.

“I – I’m not sure I can...”

She trails off. She doesn’t want to open the door to any ugliness that would shatter the perfection of this moment, but at the same time, she has no choice but to be honest.

“I mean, not all the way. I’m sorry.”

Ben strokes her cheek and smiles. It’s a full smile this time, one that doesn’t hold back, and it’s breathtaking.

“Don’t apologize. Do you want me to stop?”

“No. No, definitely not.”

“Well, you asked me to read your poem. Do you still want that?”

“Read it? But...”

He leans over to kiss her neck and mumbles against her collarbone, sending shivers through her entire body. “ _She walks in beauty, like the night, o_ _f cloudless climes and starry skies_...”

He knows the poem by heart – _her_ poem, then, she can’t think of it any other way now. Rey squeezes her eyes against the searing sensation building up within her. It’s too much and not enough, not nearly enough, but Ben is only just starting. He works his way down to the curve of her breasts, brushing his thumb over the fabric of her bra, then gently inching under it to tease her nipple. Her breath catches audibly in her throat.

“ _And all that's best of dark and brigh_ _t, m_ _eet in her aspect and her eye_ _s...”_

Ben’s deft fingers push down the straps of her bra to expose her breasts and she arches her back, giving him all the incentive he needs to lavish the sensitive peaks with his tongue. Rey groans unabashedly, wondering in a dim corner of her mind how such pleasure is even possible. But then Ben’s mouth releases her nipple and skims over the soft expanse of her stomach, slowly enough that she could stop him if she wanted to. She doesn’t.

“ _Thus mellow'd to that tender light,_ _w_ _hich heaven to gaudy day denies.”_

When he rolls down her leggings and her underwear, she expects to stiffen with self-consciousness, yet the way Ben is looking at her makes all her apprehensions melt away. Her legs fall open and his plush lips slide over her center like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

There are no more words now, just a moan escaping her throat as a wave of exquisite agony washes over her. She grasps the couch to keep some of her balance, but the way he’s gripping her hips and swiping his tongue over her, again and again, as if he could never be satiated and…

“God, Rey, how can you even be real?” he whispers hoarsely before starting again, licking and sucking with abandon.

This can’t ever stop. She will break into a million pieces in a second, but this must never stop.

“ _Please_ , Ben, please, I need...”

Her incoherent murmurs turn into a sharp cry as she hits her peak. Ben withdraws just enough so that she can wind down gently but keeps his hands on her, and when her breathing slows and her eyes flutter open, he moves to embrace her from behind and helps her pull her clothes back on. There’s delicious heat radiating from his chest and his arms, and Rey can feel his hardness against her, straining his jeans, yet he’s not giving any sign that he wants to do something about it.

“That was…” She searches for the right term. Great? Wonderful? “Real.”

Ben gives a little laugh and holds her a little tighter. “It was.”

“What about you, though?”

What about him? And the bedroom? And dawn, and morning, and everything else that’s supposed to happen when the grace of a moment suspended in time fades into reality. This will all become past tense.

He gently kisses the nape of her neck. “That can wait. Let’s take our time. There are still two more stanzas I didn’t finish.”

Rey smiles and closes her hand over his. Having a past is all right, as long as you have a future to look forward to.

_She walks in beauty, like the night_

_Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_

_And all that's best of dark and bright_

_Meet in her aspect and her eyes_

_Thus mellow'd to that tender light_

_Which heaven to gaudy day denies._

_One shade the more, one ray the less,_

_Had half impair'd the nameless grace_

_Which waves in every raven tress,_

_Or softly lightens o'er her face;_

_Where thoughts serenely sweet express_

_How pure, how dear their dwelling-place._

_And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,_

_So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_

_The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_

_But tell of days in goodness spent,_

_A mind at peace with all below,_

_A heart whose love is innocent!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddamn, Lord Byron. He was kind of a dick, but he did father Ada Lovelace and he wasn't too shabby at poetry either, so. 
> 
> This was written for Persopilliankore, who wanted a classic Reylo Modern A/U involving anonymous love letters and neighborly shenanigans, with major angst and fluff. I hope you liked this <3 Happy Valentine's Day!


End file.
